Holiday Spirit
by zh1r0n287
Summary: The Dormouse was always the quietest participant in the mad tea party, but did you ever consider that she might have been forced? With the Mad Hatter controlling her, she encountered the Dark Knight on one fateful evening, drawing her further in the madness of Arkham Asylum, and into the truths of her family. (originally posted on DeviantArt as MarchieHat)
1. T'was the Night Before Christmas

"Tetch! Let her go!"

He had gone too far this time. The Dark Knight knew that the small woman before him was not in her right mind. Jervis Tetch had kidnapped her for his Wonderland; the Dormouse. As the stark white snow fell around them, the black of the bat stood out in plain contrast.

"I'm afraid I cannot, Jabberwocky! Dormouse, please dispose of our guest!"

The young woman with a curled mess of brunette hair merely nodded in response. Her eyes were narrowly open; she looked as though she would fall asleep at any moment. A long gash was cut across her cheek, trickles of crimson red blood seeping from beneath the skin. Her glasses were thrown askew from her face, buried in the snow beneath her feet. Atop her head, a grand set of mouse ears were mounted on a headband.

The source of the Hatter's control.

It took moments before she ran towards Batman. The pint sized woman ran with all her might at the dark knight, narrowly missing a slice at his abdomen with her knife. He dodged easily, the woman seeming undeterred. As this went on, with the Batman hesitant to hit the innocent woman, the GCPD pulled up, all aiming their guns at the woman. Not a single shot fired.

None dare take the risk of missing.

"Yes, yes! Do try to hit him, Dormouse, we haven't nearly got time for tea left!" The Hatter shouted impatiently as the cops dragged him back to restrain him. His marvellous hat was knocked clear from his head as the Dormouse was in mid swing with the blade.

Before her senses fully returned, however, it was too late. A yell of pain came from the tall guardian of Gotham. Drops of scarlet stained the white dashed along the ground. The widening of the young woman's eyes brought her awareness.

And with it, the heavy weight of realisation of the scene that lie before her.

It took only a moment before she spun around to the call of a man far behind her. And it took the split second in doing so before the piercing ring of a gunshot resonated. The birds perched upon the barren branches took flight and a sharp gasp replaced the echoing silence of the bullet.

The cold, bloodied steel fell from the limp grip of the woman's hand, and the same crimson red from her cheek spread from her stomach. Her hands urgently flew to the wound, trying to supress some of the gushing from her gut.

"No!" Two voices cried out. One belonging to the Hatter, the other… to the dark knight himself.

He held tightly onto the deep gash on his forearm, concealing the flow beneath his leather glove. He ran to the young woman's aid, whom had collapsed onto her knees into the freezing snow as the blood ran from her desperate hands. The Hatter stared in horror, ceasing all struggles that he had in the arms of the officers, whom had now frozen in their motions as time seemed to stop dead.

As time resumed its sorrowful pace, the small woman fell backward, colour draining from her features as her skin became as pale as the snow that rests as an icy blanket. The burgundy of her fleeting life bloomed out from beneath her, a stray drop escaping from the corner of her dark lips. The Batman caught her in her descent, her body lighter than ever as the darkness began closing in her sight.

"Somebody help!"


	2. On the Twelfth Day of Christmas

The steady bleep of the heart rate monitor kept them aware. Aware of the life they kept watch over. She had survived a terrible ordeal. One that no ordinary citizen should have needed experience at any point in their lives.

Except, all the doctors knew she wasn't ordinary.

She had been mentally controlled by Jervis Tetch, that much was clear about her role in the plot. But, no matter what they convinced themselves of, they could not shake the feeling that something was not right about the woman the Batman had saved.

They could never forget how she was brought to them: in the Batman's arms, hanging limply like a ragdoll, skin pale as a corpse's. The snow was melting into the frosted blood, her hands encrusted in the crimson nectar. It would have taken a miracle for them to save her, and it was a miracle that came to them to treat her. Dr Thomas Elliot; a highly proficient surgeon.

It was almost enough to drive the doctors and guards mad. Bleep. Bleep. Bleep. It was almost 12 hours since she was brought to them and saved, and the noise had faded back as part of the continual quiet that reigned through the building.

It was then that they heard a faint groan of awakening from the patient herself. A guard sighed his relief, glad that he would no longer have to endure the deafening silence.

"You're awake." A doctor remarked, observing as the woman sat up in her attempt to awake herself further, "you were badly injured, Ms. Could you tell us your name?"

The brunette paused a moment, before parting her dark lips, "Panya Day. Where am I?"

The doctor froze at her name. He was in fear, how would she react to the truth?

"Miss Day… Welcome to Arkham Asylum."


	3. A New Year, A New Life

Panya lay back in her medical bed. It had been 6 days since she had been brought to Arkham Asylum; almost one week to the day. And yet, she had not fully recovered yet from the wound deep in her abdomen. She had tried to move time and time again, but a fierce pain shot straight through her body every attempt she made. It was enough for tears to well at the edge of her eyes, before she wipes them away underneath the wire frames of her glasses.

New Year's Eve. The one night of the year that every member of staff goes to celebrate away from the patients, getting themselves intoxicated for a pounding hangover the very next morning. Panya never saw the point in it; celebrating the coming of the very next year. In fact, she never saw the purpose in any holiday except for them being an excuse to have a break from the mundane day jobs the generation must endure to survive in a world based around economy and taxes.

She could hear the faint cheering of the staff from down the hallway. The staff that were meant to be making sure she stays alive. She could hear the pop of the champagne cork, the preparations set in motion for the countdown to midnight; the new year.

Her focus soon became diverted, however, as the door to the room she resided swung open. A tall, somewhat overweight man somewhat limped in; he wore a platform on one leg to keep them even length. He had a smooth, bald head with a circular tattoo all around the circumference on his head. Jan Feb Mar Apr Jun Jul Aug Sep Oct Nov Dec, it read, all in a sequence.

Panya became curious of the man's purpose in being here, but the curiosity soon faded into fear. Fear of the man's purpose in finding her. A smile spread across his face as he limped closer to her, watching as she bundled herself up in the blanket in a childlike display of defending herself.

"Calm down, child, for I am not the Boogie Man." He rasped, sitting at the edge of the bed.

"W-What do you want from me…?" She whispered, shaking slightly.

"I wanted to meet you. My dear little Panya, how you've grown…"

Panya's eyes widened. This creep knew her name! "How do you know my name…?"

A smirk fixed itself to the man's face, though it was not in pride that he made her cower. Rather, it was calm, almost… affectionate.

"Little Panya… my name is Julian Day. _Your father_…"


	4. Day of Hearts

_St. Valentine, St. Valentine, give me your heart, this February._

Valentine's Day. A day universally celebrated by those with their loved ones. Each and every year, men would buy red roses for their beloved; the two of them sharing romantic gestures for one another, giving their heart and soul to the other.

In Arkham Asylum, however, giving your heart could be very deadly indeed.

However, some patients still participate in the holiday – in their own ways. Take Dr. Harleen Quinzel, for example; commonly known as Harley Quinn. She would always spend the day in the asylum's Recreation Room with The Joker, her self-proclaimed "Puddin'". Jervis Tetch, the Mad Hatter, would spend his time in his cell, pining after his yet-to-be-found Alice. Even Julian Day, AKA Calendar Man, would have plans for this day, plotting out his next homicide.

However, of all the patients in the asylum, the one who would not participate at all was Panya. Even now, as the inmates sat all around in the Recreation Room, she sat at the chess table, playing against the one she had come to know as the March Hare (from the Hatter, of course) over the year she had been here.

"Checkmate." He smirked, leaning back in his seat.

Panya sighed in dismay, "Come on, Crane, best of seven this time?"

"No chance, Day. Now," He leaned forward quickly in his seat, his lanky frame almost towering over her even in their reclined state, "_tell me what it is you REALLY fear…_"

That voice of his always sent shivers down her spine, and not in the pleasant way either. She sunk back in her seat in a pathetic effort of escaping the Master of Fear, to no avail as his smirk widened into something sinister. Just as her mouth fell open to give him the answer he hungered for, an Asylum Guard stepped into the room.

"Interview, Crane, get up." The guard's strong grip constricted around Jonathan's forearm, pulling him towards the doorway.

"Saved by the bell, it seems. Oh but don't worry, I WILL know your darkest fears…" And with a final smirk, he disappeared from the room, an unsettling silence filling the dank room before it all resumed as it had before; everyone had gone along with their own business.

Panya, on the other hand, was hyperventilating. "Master of Fear" was DEFINITELY not an understatement… Various scenarios blitzed through her head: would he find out passively, or would her just inject her like she had heard about from other patients? Would he be kind (in his demented, nursery-rhyme-chanting way), or would her be ruthless with an iron grip around her shrieking throat?

A calm hand on her shoulder roused her from her phobic thoughts. Panya flinched at the sudden touch before turning around to see a familiar young man with a cigarette balanced in hand.

"Falcone…?"

The youngest Falcone son nodded in affirmation, smiling fondly, "Panya… you have no idea how good it is to see you."

The Dormouse smiled up at him. She had always been friends with Alberto Falcone, being one of the few people who would talk to him about his troubles and vice versa. They often shared ideas, information and even a few quips here and there.

It wasn't long however that a guard stepped into the room, pulling Panya from the Falcone son.

"Interview, Day, hurry it up."

"Hey, Alberto?"

At his name he turned around to the smile of the minute woman, "Yes?"

"Happy birthday."

"Are you sure we should be keeping her here? This close to her father?"

"Positive. Be patient, Doctor Young, everything will be made clear soon. _Everything…_"


	5. Clovers Over Hearts

_St. Patrick's Day… Let's hope the river continues to run green, hiding the blood beneath the surface…_

It was only a month before Panya was forced to drop in again to the same old medical room she spent her first weeks in. They had finally decided to do a physical overview of her continually battered body, finding many scars, both big and small. Analysis was done here and there, doctors theorising about the cause of each wound and scar. Some figured it was because of Jervis, others suspected Jonathan. Some even considered the possibility of self-harm for the young woman.

With every guess they had, not a single response was drawn from Panya. They were only met with blank stares, glares and the odd saddened look. After half an hour of unsuccessful attempts at answers, the doctors let her go with a heavy sigh; not a single thing was given away.

A simple routine followed: be handcuffed, be led down the corridors to cell, be un-cuffed, and then locked up inside the small rectangular room. Repetitive. Restrictive. Boring. The Dormouse yawned, covering her mouth as best as she could with her petite hand; evidently fatigue had begun to set in.

Before she could lie down to rest herself, however, a woman in a somewhat clean, white doctor's jacket entered the cell. Her dark brown hair was pulled back into a tight bun, clasping onto a clipboard with her pale hands. She watched the smaller woman warily, as if she were going to leap up and harm her.

"Miss Day..?" She inquired, earning a small nod in response, "Penny Young.. I've been assigned as your doctor for the duration of your stay here…"

_Your stay… _She spoke those words as though she were staying at a hotel. Very droll, however Panya was not at all pleased with her phrasing. Irritation began to bubble at the surface with the brunette woman in the cell. She was sure that many other inmates held her in such high hatred as well. Young definitely rung a bell in a few of the inmates' kill lists…

"Miss Day?" Ah, of course, the woman was still talking. She must've zoned out, lost in her thoughts during her explanations. It would've been considered rude by the Panya before that fateful Christmas Eve, but such a notion would now fall on deaf ears as she continued to stare blankly at the woman, just as she had for the other doctors.

Eventually, the doctor sighed and turned on her heel, leaving the cell. A sigh of relief came from the Dormouse's mouth, a content smile stretching across her lips. Laying on her bed, she casually observed outside of her cell, watching each of the different inmates pass. Mr Tetch screaming for his Alice, Mr Nigma spouting riddle after riddle in an attempt to baffle the doctors. Crane (she adamantly refused to refer to the man at a higher status) staring into her cell as he passed, shivers racing along her vertebrae as a thin smirk caressed his pale complexion. The man made her sick to the core…

What REALLY drew her attention, however, was Dr Isley. The vibrant rose red of her hair, against the chlorophyll green of her skin, the vines that embraced her figure. She began to fixate on the woman, more and more allured to her, curious as to how the guards could refuse such a woman. Then it hit her. Pheromones. Her own mind had been played by spores.

Bruised pride aside, she could not but help to wonder about the walking amalgamation of flesh and flora in the halls of the asylum. Smirking to herself, Panya thought about the woman's skin, then referred to her calendar.

St Patrick's Day. Emerald green of the clover.

A deep inhale of the cell brought her to her roots. To the memory of the newspapers. A man named Julian Gregory Day. Familiar now, she closed her eyes, fondest thoughts coursing through her.

_Father…_


End file.
